


Comfort

by tiger_moran



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Comfort Sex, M/M, Minor Character Death, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-09
Updated: 2014-03-09
Packaged: 2018-01-15 05:09:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1292575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_moran/pseuds/tiger_moran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In war one takes comfort wherever one can find it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Comfort

    Watson has seen wild animals in the zoo, pacing in their cages. This is what the colonel reminds him of now, after the battle when they should be resting, but Moran’s blood is up; he can’t settle; he feels as if his battle is only half-won.

    A man died in Moran’s arms today. John McCarthy. A comrade. A fellow soldier many miles away from England, but the difference was that man – that _boy_ , really – was far from home. Colonel Moran though probably has no home, just stages of his existence where he tries to belong; tries to fit in; tries to put on the veneer of a regular human being even though he’s a hunter, a predator and barely tamed; even though he doesn’t belong here at all.

    The boy-soldier bled out; there was nothing Watson could do, just try futilely to stem the blood flow from a severed artery while McCarthy whimpered and clutched Moran’s hand.

    “Please, Colonel, I don’t want to die,” he said. “Please.”

    “Shhh, quiet now,” Moran said. “You’ll be all right; Doctor Watson here will see you right, don’t you fret.” He stroked bloodstained fingers across the boy’s brow, pushing back already bloodied, sweat-grimed hair. There was tenderness in that gesture. Watson knew it was feigned – that Moran uses kindness only as a tool, no more – but it didn’t seem to matter really. McCarthy’s grip on his hand was growing weaker by the moment. A few moments more, and it went slack entirely.

    Moran crouched there with the lad’s head in his lap, his hands stained with the boy’s blood, and there was _something_ in those cool blue eyes that softened them for a moment. Watson didn’t think it was grief, but pity, maybe. In a moment it was gone, shifted into cold anger directed towards the enemy for taking one of his men. Moran’s loyalty to those above him is sometimes questionable. Watson has seen his temper provoked by them before, when he thinks their decisions foolish, but he’s always been loyal to those alongside him or beneath him. Take one of his men and now there’s viciousness in him.

    Watson was suddenly immensely relieved that he was on the same side as the colonel.

 ~

    “You were lovers,” Watson says now, watching him pace. “You and McCarthy.”

    “An astute observation, Doctor.” Moran blows out a thin stream of cigarette smoke before grinning wickedly.

    Hardly surprising, given the colonel’s tastes and habits. There’s talk of how he frequents the nearest brothels regularly and some say he’s bedded half the regiment. Watson thought maybe McCarthy really loved Moran though.

    “ _Did_ you love him?” Watson asks, though he’s sure it’s impossible and knows that to be the case when Moran gives him a withering look.

    “I _don’t_ love.”

    Watson tries very hard to hide how much this remark cuts him, turning his face away, wishing that it didn’t bother him. It’s hardly uncommon for the men in the regiment to seek satisfaction with each other - kisses and caresses and physical release – but probably most of them don’t fall in love with each other and he shouldn’t expect any more from Moran. “But you want vengeance for his death.”

    “He was mine. You don’t cross me, or any of mine.”

    “It’s war, Colonel; sometimes men die.” Watson knows this too well, and knows how much it hurts to lose a man he’s seen around day after day, shared space with,  shared much more with, occasionally, but he also knows that one must put aside personal feelings in order to function. He expected Moran to be the master of this, but the colonel looks dark and dangerous now.

    “It may be a war but this is _my_ fight – this is personal.” Moran’s eyes are bright, the line of his mouth cruel and mocking, and although none of his half-insane anger is directed at Watson, Watson is still uneasy.

    “Come lie with me,” he says, patting the narrow bed.

    Moran stares at him with a tilt to his head that makes him look even more animalistic somehow. “What do you want?”

    “Comfort,” Watson replies. “Only comfort, Colonel.”

    “I don’t do comfort, unless we’re talking of the purely physical variety in which case let us be brutally honest with each other and call it a fuck, hmm?”

     But Watson is somewhat better bred or better raised or better _something_ anyway (perhaps just better at being true to himself and his family; not denying his identity; his history – even though he tries, sometimes) than Moran, and he won’t. “Sex, then.”

    “Ah well.” Moran flicks aside his cigarette stub. “That, I can do.”

     And he does, mouth meeting mouth and blue eyes meeting blue as they lie together, sharing breath; sharing heat; friction; skin on skin as they thrust against each other, because even if Moran doesn’t love him Watson still thinks this is better than being alone. There is still some consolation to be found in the warmth of Moran’s body against his; in the way that Moran slumps against him once spent; in the few moments when Moran is too breathless and filled with post-coital bliss to think of withdrawing.

    Surely it’s better anyway to adore the half-crazed, barely-feeling colonel who can never love him back than to love someone who feels the same for him in such a precarious situation where every day Watson has no idea which man, or men, may perish. Maybe then it won’t hurt so much if Moran dies, although truthfully he doubts Moran will die here. The man seems so reckless but it’s as if danger merely bounces off him, knocked sideways by his boldness. In India this man crawled down a drain after a man-eating tiger to finish off the hapless beast; he’s run into enemy encampments and into volleys of gunfire to drag out injured comrades, and every time he’s come out almost unscathed. If Sebastian Moran ever meets death face to face he’ll probably punch him in the nose, call him a lousy bastard and then walk away without a scratch upon him.

    Watson is not entirely sure this will be a good thing.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is an old fic I found in my 'deleted scenes' file, put there because I don't really ship Moran/Watson any more as it's more a Ritchie!verse-specific pairing and most of my headcanon is now canon-based. However since it was pretty self-contained it seemed a shame to just waste it.


End file.
